Intros and Anecdotes

This week in La Sante Prison in Paris, two fellers got their ‘eads chopped off. This was official, and it was meant as a punishment. Here is a translation of a famous French song about capital pun. It was written some twenty years ago by Georges Brassens – the best, the very best of all poet-singers. It is called The Gorilla, and it is offensive.

Even though thirteen years have passed
Same old caper, same silly farce
Same old cliques, same old shrieks
Same old piercing pains in arse.

Thirteen years, much the same:
Women are everywhere in chains.
And the escapades of the daft brigades
Dismay, deride, demean, defame.

After the song, Noel walked over and exchanged a few words with Jake.

Noel Edmonds: Are you a male chauvinist pig, Sir?

Jake Thackray: Of course not. And that’s not the point of the song. I’ll tell you what I am: erm, I don’t like loonies. In most – I dunno, it seems to me to be common wisdom – most organisations and groupings of people that are undepinned by a value or an ideal in society, they’re like bloody flypaper: they attract the loonies! You know: the shriekers on the touchline; the hecklers; the prats; and the pratesses. And I think that the loonies on the borders have done as much damage to the admirable cause of women’s liberation as have, say the Miss World competition. I think that they are as – I don’t like using words like degrad – debasing.

NE: You think that beauty contests actually do degrade womanhood?

JT: Oh goodness me, yes! I’d rather look in Dewhurst’s window – well I wouldn’t really, but, you know, it’s the same sort of display, you know: chops and loins.

NE: And these comments are coming from a man who wrote a song that started ‘I like a good bum on a woman”?

JT: But of course! Yes! Oh, listen, I’ve – I reserve my – I don’t mind if people want to be loonies, so long as they don’t mind if I take the piss out of them.

NE: Ladies and gentlemen: Jake Thackray.

For the first time ever a couple of my sons are here this evening. That’s to say it’s really the very first time that they’ve seen me doing what I tell ’em I do. [Shot of sons, looking about 9 or 10.] And it’ll be interesting to see what they say tomorrow and in the days following, because . . . in the motor car I get them in the back, with the dog, and I get them in the back and I strap them down, I get the buckles on and I lash ’em all down, lock ’em in, tell ’em it’s for their own good, and then we get in the car – “Are you right, dear? OK?”, key in the ignition – click – and behind me I can hear pick, click, click-click-click, they’re picking the locks and they’re out, and they’re leaning over the back seat, they’re watching everything I’m doing [mimes child peering closely, with thumb in mouth]. It’s very endearing when they do this isn’t it? [thumb in mouth, other hand on top of head] And when there’s a lot of ’em sometimes they get the wrong head [mimes again], you know.

Anyhow, they’re watching everything you’re doing: “He’s going round a corner, he’s going round a corner. Daddy! You didn’t put your winker on! Aren’t you supposed to put your winker on when you’re going a -?”

They watch the diagram on the gear lever: “He’s into number one. He’s into number t- He missed out number three! Daddy! Are you supposed to miss out number three? Tell us.” We get into town: “Daddy! Daddy! You’re doing thirty-five-and-a-half miles an hour! What happens? You’re not supposed to do it! What do we do? Shall we go and tell the police or will you go and tell the police?”

And, anyhow, they’re all in the back, and I’m driving down what for me is a difficult street to drive down: it’s a terraced . . . it’s a row of terraced houses, cars parked on either side, one navigable channel in the middle. And I’m a bit of an agricultural driver and so I’m driving very carefully up there: because of the oncoming traffic; there might be people going in between the cars; balls bouncing across; dogs trotting; so I’m concentrating. And of course they’re all [thumb in mouth, peering closely]. And out of a door over here there steps a beautiful-looking girl; she is stunning. And she’s dressed in the contemporary gear: she’s got the high heels and the tight jeans and the ferrets in the T-shirt. Well, you know – and it’s a vison! And so of course I look, and I lose control of the car and there’s a bit of a wobble. And when I look back, erm, they’re all at it: “Daddy! What’s going on! What’s going on!” And unfortunately, when I’m lunging back at the wheel I do what I try never to do: I swear in front of them: I say [whispers] “Bollocks”. And they’re all going “What did he say then? What did he say?” “Horlicks!” “Horlicks?” “Horlicks!” And so it’s pandemonium. And I turned round and I thought: Well, there’s nothi- there’s never anything like a dose of the truth. “Listen boys! Listen! Shut up! Quiet. You know that I love your beautiful mother, I love her neverendingly, enduringly, passionately – you know that. However. Girls are beautiful to look at and I looked at one, she was so beautiful, and I took me eyes off the road and there was a bit of a wobble, you know, and it was wrong of me and I’ll never do it again.” And so they all look at each other and say, “Well, what d’you think, lads, what do you think?” “That seems fair enough.” “That seems fair enough, doesn’t it?” “Right.” [Thumb mime] And then . . . I think I’ve cracked that one, but then we get home, we get home, and before I’ve put the handbrake on – the traitors! They’re out into the kitchen and they’re dancing about: “Mother! Mother! He’s been looking at women all day!

And then – and then for a few days after that, they’re all upstairs bangin’ about in the bedroom: “Horlicks!” “Horlicks!”

I’ll have a go at this request if I can remember it. I’d jump at the chance of singing it because . . . I’ll talk for a bit. I love introducing this song, because it’s about a – it’s about somebody of whom I’m very fond. His name is Reginald Sedgwick and he’s a schoolteacher and I’m devoted to the man, he’s one of the best men I know. He’s a schoolteacher, very clever bloke. At the moment – when I first met him he’d got a job in the same school where I was teaching – I taught in a school in a rough part of Leeds, and Reggie got the job there as the head of the Maths Department; now he’s the head of the Science Faculty in a massive comprehensive in Hartlepool. Now the thing about Reggie is, and the reason why I wrote the song is that Reggie’s odd; Reggie’s peculiar; things keep on happening to him – it’s as simple as that: things keep on banging down on him. And whatever he does – he’s not clumsy, he’s not accident-prone; it’s just that God doesn’t like him. And God keeps on whopping him. Erm, there’s a – These things happen to him so frequently and with such bloody ferocity. I’ll give you some examples.

Reggie once fell off a hovercraft. You know, I mean, you can’t fall off hovercraft; it’s impossible; it’s like [sound of a bottle falling] – the bugger’s not here, is he! It’s catching! Erm, and the thing was that Reggie and I and a lady teacher were taking a party of schoolchildren to France at the time. Now we’re outside the twelve-mile limit and there’s Reggie, bobbing around in the foam, and the children are taking photographs of him through the little, the little portholes.

Reggie once drove off from a cinema in Leeds, he once drove off out the car park in somebody else’s car. Now we’d come on the bus for a start, you know; and, and he – er, his wife and I and my girlfriend, we were sprinting up Cardigan Road in Leeds, sprinting after Reggie saying “Come back you daft . . .” Because he’d just walked out and got into the car and drove off. And he didn’t notice that it was a different model altogether. Plus the fact that there were two dogs woofing at him in the back.

He’s done all sorts, erm . . . Don’t get me wrong: Reggie is not a figure of fun and, to tell you the truth [laughter] – but he isn’t, [heartfelt] oh, d’you know, he isn’t; there’s a lot more to him than that, and I’ll tell you what: I’m disappointed in this song. Erm, I used to like it but I don’t like it any more because it doesn’t reflect the real, lovely, Reggie . Ohhh [sighs deeply]. Erm, it . . . oh, you’ve no idea; he’s, he’s, he’s a stunning fellow. He’s got everything – for a teacher he’s got everything against him. He’s a, he’s a little bloke, he’s got a little sort of humpy walk and he, he bounces along like this with his – and he – and he’s also got a funny right arm action as he’s [demonstrates to laughter] as he’s walking along, like a spin bowler warming up. And he’s got big thick pebb- he’s very, very short-sighted, he’s got thick pebble glasses and he’s always [demonstrates] looking around, twitching. You know, obviously he’s looking for the next thing that’s going to happen to him.

In fact when he got to this, when he got to this school , school called Intake in Leeds, er, the sixth-form maths set did a project. They did a statistical project on Reggie, with recurrency graphs and all sorts of complicated – but they did, and, and he encouraged them because he knows about himself, he’s self-aware; he knows that these things – and he said, yeah, get on with it, boys and girls, I’ll be interested. And they did a, an intense study of how, how often these things happen to Reggie. And they worked out that something happens to Reggie once every fifty-five minutes! This is – but this is – I mean it was a good study, it was complete: this is day and night, you understand, you know. The breakdown was fifty-five minutes!

When he first came, when he first came into the staff-room, I can remember all these . . . all these laggard teachers, lying about in the chairs, and he says “Hello everybody!”; he comes in and he says [whispers shyly] “H-hello everybody, I’m the new Head of Maths”. And we all laughed! And we think: w- you get into, you know, 4E, and we’ll give you three minutes, old love, you know, erm, they’ve actually got a gallows in the yard! Because it’s a rough school and, erm . . . and children can destroy teachers, easy: I mean, they can just look at a teacher and they spot something that’s peculiar and wham! they’ll crucify him without saying a word. But funnily enough – and we all expected this to happen, you know, we thought, well that poor bugger, you know, they’ll have him, these boys. But in fact the whole school fell in love with him, and I don’t know why it was. Er, perhaps it was his vulnerability, or his – he’d got a kind of, I don’t know, a kind of saintliness about him, that really you couldn’t take advantage of him. Me and Martin – a mate I had who was another teacher – we used to creep around and look through the windows when Reggie – when we got free periods we used to look through the windows to see what the bugger was doing! You know. But all we saw was, let’s say, the fifth year, the big, chunky, tattooed, Elastoplast-sniffing fifth year who were, you know, who were the muggers of the school, you know, the first team muggers, and we thought that they’d be pandemonium. We thought Reg- but no, they’ve all got their arms folded, they’re all putting their hands up and “Yes, Sir, certainly, Sir.” “Yes, Sir, right-oh.” Good as gold! And we couldn’t understand it. But in fact every class in the school was like that with Reggie, whether they were troublesome or not. They adored him and when Reggie taught, when he taught: total silence; even when he was teaching the wrong class!

And listen! I’ll tell you wh- I’ll tell you, er, if y- if you don’t mind me boring your ears off, but . . . In the staff r- we used to have these staff-room m- we used to have these staff meetings once a fortnight, and we, we bloody hated them because, you know, we’d just sit around in the chair and the, the lunatic of a headmaster would come in and ramble and warble for a bit. Oh, he was a whelk! And then we used to – and we used to – we used to bicker about coffee-money and “He’s been sitting in my chair all this week!” Oh this – oh, and it was, well we’d, we’d go on twittering like this and suddenly Reggie’d get up, little . . . preposterous Reggie‘d get up and he’d . . . “Er, Headmaster, excuse me, er, what are we talking about here? We are dedicated and educated men and women and we’ve got a sacred duty: we’ve got these children, now they’re deprived children, they’re the rough end of the stick of this world, and we can show them [dramatic whisper] the horizons. We can bring out their talents If only we talked about that! Let’s talk about that, Headmaster!” Now then, usually in any classr- in any staff-room, if somebody made a speech which included ideals and mentioned the word ‘horizons’, you know, we’d all be “Huh” [dismissively]. But no! It’s true! But no, you know, we used to stand up and applaud and “Yeah! Spot on, Reggie!” It’s true! Because, I mean, the main horizons that most of those teachers had was the bloody bus-stop! You know, and . . .

But it’s odd. I’m, I’m – I don’t want to overstate it here, or, erm – but he was like this, he’d got the quality of idealism and he- and people believed in it. And, most of all, the boys and girls believed in it. They bloody did: they worshipped him. And he used to carry it out into his actual teaching and his behaviour. Well, one, my own favourite – he used to organise school trips. He used to give up all his evenings and he used to come in early in the morning and his weekends and his holidays, just dedicated to showing children: “There’s the horizon! Follow me and I’ll show you!” He used to take them on school trips and he used to call them – it was so bloody crummy! – he used to call them: ‘Mr Sedgwick’s Cultural Adventures’! So corny!. But the boys and girls – and I mean they were, they really were rough-os, and streetwise or whatever the current name is – but they, but they used to fight each other to get their names on Reggie’s list when he put one up on the board. ‘Cos they loved going with him; they didn’t care where he took them to. And he used to take them to places like Slough! You know. Birkenhead! But they wanted to go with him because they were devoted to him be- because he did show them horizons. And also they knew that something was going to happen every fifty-five minutes!

Oh, he’s a star, is Reggie. D’you know, I don’t half admire people like that. His most – he didn’t care what – I mean he was so vulnerab- he didn’t care if people laughed at him or if he prat-fell or anything like that: he just cracked on with it. His most famous school trip was when he took a party of fourteen schoolchildren to Saffron Walden to see the lavender fields. Well, he took the fourteen of them down there but he came back with twenty-one! Because of course, because they’d hitch-hiked, they’d left home, they’d run away from home, they went: “Where’s fugging Saffron Walden? I’m going”. You know. Oh he was, erm . . .

Oh he’s a wonderful man. Erm . . . Yes, why not. I’ll tell you one last story about Reggie and it’s, it’s a favourite . . . of mine. I saw it happen. Er, Reggie, like me, is, is a Roman Catholic, and this happened, oh, a long time ago, er, 1969. And it happened in a church in Leeds, just near the cricket ground. Cardigan Road; Our Lady of Lourdes Catholic church. Now then, it’s about half-past eleven on a Saturday morning and I’m in the back of the church because in those days I’m, er, I’m one of these eager-beaver parishioners, I’m doing everything, I’m a right do-gooder; I’m into everything; I’m a right pain. And I’m stood by the font with the priest and we’re sort of, er, licking pencils and making lists and, you know, I’m fawning and being obsequious. And suddenly we hear the door squeak open – we hear the splash! in the font as, you know, he dips his hand in and then we hear the door squeak open and we see little Reggie come in. And, to quote the priest – he leans back against the stained glass and he looks and he sees Reggie and, word for word, verbatim, he says: “Oh Christ Almighty!” ‘Cos, of course, he’s worried about the fabric of his church. Er, we – we do not know when the last thing happened to Reggie, and he’s thinking: Is there one bugger due now, or . . . What Reggie does, to be, try and be quick about it, Reggie goes down to the Lady Chapel and he kneels on the kneeler, t- and all he’s going to do is to light a candle and to say three Hail Mary’s; Catholics do this, they – . . . it, it’s ludicrous; it is. But it doesn’t do anybody harm: Catholics say prayers and light candles to big dolls. Now then, this is the sort of set-up: there’s, er, the statue of the Virgin there, and then there’s the punter here, on the kneeler, and then in between the two there’s like a big . . . a big bush of, of erm, candle-holders, it’s like a, a big bush, just on one stand, but it’s like a – a tree. And each – and there’s little tubes there, and in the bottom of the – each tube there’s a little spike, and you’ve got to get your candle down into there. Now then, Catholics are basically, I’ve discovered – I mean I like them, I do like them, but I’ve discovered that they – first of all they’re idle, and they’re selfish: because those who get there at half-past nine in the morning, they don’t think about the other ones to come: they light up all the first few rows. So, if you get there for half-past eleven it’s one of these sort of jobs, you know [demonstrates to laughter]. And the priest is saying, well, “What’s he doing now? What’s the bugger doing?” I said “Well, Father, he’s standing on the altar rail and he’s leaning over to get his candle . . .” But in fact everything goes well: miraculously, what with it being Our Lady of Lourdes, everything goes well. And he kneels down and crosses himself and bends in prayer . . . sets his head on fire! Classic Reggie! Vintage Reggie!

Listen, I’m talking too much, shall I – get on with this song. In this – you will notice in the song that, erm, I think it’s a bit – I quite like it, but it’s a bit too flippant: it, it doesn’t reflect all the sort of love that I’ve got for this . . . clumsy bugger.

This introduction appears from its content to have been made on a TV or radio programme with Ralph McTell some time in late 1982. It may be part of the TV programme recorded at the Highcliff Hotel folk club in Sheffield that Ralph refers to in his obituary note on Jake (see Ralph’s website).

Incredible clappers, aren’t they! Ace clappers! Start throwing them mackerel!

I don’t know whether I’ve sung this in front of you, Ralph; I don’t know whether you’ve heard this song. I think you might’ve done.

In our house at the moment, I thin- it seems to me that I’ve got ‘elluva lot of kids – they seem to be all over the bloody place – they do! I mean . . . open a drawer and one pops out and – you know; it – and the thing is they’re all male children: they’re all “nippers”. And there’s – there’s one peculiar thing that I’m beginning to noti-. I don’t know what it’s like in a household of girls, I’ve not a clue; I just know about these . . . lads. They’re always running! They never s- they never walk; they always- they’re always bloody trotting. And me and Sheila stand in the hall and we’re watching them whizzing by and, you know, like a bunch of bloody ponies, they are. I’ve got- I’ve got this theory that children- that boys actually slow down and start walking at the age of sexual awareness. At – th- you know, they – ooof [loud intake of breath], then they blush, all – gulp! er – you know, er . . . “Mrs Wilkinson, er, is your child walking yet?” “Oh hell, no; he’s only – he’s only eight!” You know, it’s . . .

Well . . . The nippers at the – the little trotters, the younger end, they’ve discovered war, they’ve discovered erm – well they’ve got a real – they’ve had some real live wars, you know, I mean they missed Vietnam and all they’ve see- all they know about war is the John Wayne sort-of version. And since April, since the South Atlantic, they’ve discovered war. They read about it in the paper and we get maps out, and they play at it. And, d’you know, it appals me; it appals me. They’re playing at Argies and Brits: “Look, I’ll tell you what: I’ll be the 3rd Para, and you go and lie down in the mud over there and be an Argie.” They do! But I hear them and – it – it appals me and . . . at night-time, when they go, when they go to bed, on our way to bed we, you know, you look in – you look in the children’s room, in the dormitory, and their night-time conversation goes like this: “Eeeeow! Uh-uh-uh-uh! Boom! Krrrr!” I- I find it so appaling, you know, especially as . . . it’s an irony that at the same time as th- as children are discovering the world of sexuality, the best things about life, you know, they’re also, they’re discovering . . . er – moral confusion: to be confused about . . . who is responsible. You know, after the bloody massacre, people would ask “Who did it?”  “We didn’t do it. They did it.”  “Oh no, we didn’t do it, oh no. They did it, over there.”  “Ah, no, but, er . . .” You know, all this dodging and chicanery and . . .

Now we’re, we’re adults; we’re adults, and we know that important people, people in important places, are more often than not . . . fiddlers, and dodgers, and duckers, and weavers. I mean, we know this, but you know, to see a child getting the message . . . Er . . . Uh – de –

You don’t mind me going on like that? It just came on; it just came on; it -. See what you think: it’s a peculiar song, but I quite like it.

~~~~

This introduction is from a session at the Red Lion Folk Club, Birmingham, November 1986, clearly just after Remembrance Sunday

With last Sunday being what it was I’ll, I’ll just whop this little song – it’s a little peculiar song and, er . . . I’ve had it hanging about in a drawer for bloody ages and I sing it to friends and family and they, they look at me and they say “Well, yes, Jake old love, we er, you know, we know what you’re on about, but, for goodness’ sake, don’t go and sing it in front of real people”. Erm . . . It’s – it’s a – it’s a – it’s a peculiar little thing; it’s an odd little bugger; but I do like it. I’ll – I’ll tell you what: I’ll just whop it in and see what you think.

Introduction from a session at the Red Lion Folk Club, Birmingham, November 1986

Here’s a little, er . . . d’you know, it’s the only, the only . . . real . . . love song that I’ve managed to write – I’d – I’ll – I’d love to write a love song, a proper love song; I’d love to do that: to write a really . . . proper one. But, d’you know, I, I get half way through love – I, I have a stab a writing love songs and I get half-way through writing and, and I crack up laughing. You, know, er, I seem to always spoil it somehow. Erm . . . It’s a right old song is this.

Introduction from Braden’s Week, BBC TV, 27 November 1971

It’s often seemed to me that in matters of love and courtship there is a curious arithmetic whereby the more beautiful the girl that you fall in love with, the more . . . peculiar her parents turn out to be. My good friend Reginald Sedgwick married a very beautiful woman and a curious mother-in-law. For the forty-or-so years that she’s been using it, Mrs Wilcox (for such is her name) has never yet got a grip on the English Language. So, talking about a wayward nephew, she will say: “He’s only going through a phrase”. Or there again, boasting about her husband’s fine record as a twenty-year motorist with no accident yet to his name, she will say: “He’s still got it, you know – his no bones claimus”. Sympathising with the Jews at Easter time she says: “They’ve still got the feast of the flyover”.

The crunch came for Reginald when he took his beautiful wife round to the in-laws, some time ago, for a Sunday tea – you know: pilchards and trifle. Towards the end of the meal, Mrs Wilcox picked up a little glass salt cellar which she believes to be crystal and, holding it up to the light, said: “If you look through there, Reggie, you’ll see all the colours of the rectum”.

Here is a song for such as Reginald Sedgwick who marry more than they bargained for.

Introduction from a session at the Red Lion Folk Club, Birmingham, November 1986

On the coast of the North Riding of Yorkshire there’s a string of seedy little towns, seaside towns; and I love them, I’m ever so fond of them, more than I can tell you, and it’s only because, erm . . . because when I was a, when I was a child it was, it was childhood holidays, and I was very, very happy there, and I’m still happy when I go back. But, er, all the trawler fleets have left and nobody goes there really for holidays nowadays and it starts in Whitby in the North: Redcar and Whitby and Robin Hood’s Bay and Saltburn and . . and of course there’s the queen of the Costa (whispers) queen: Scarborough; Scarborough. This song is about a woman who lives in Bridlington.

A story told by Jake on ‘Jake Thackray and Songs’, BBC TV 20 January 1981

I’ve got an auntie, er, a maiden aunt, Auntie Elizabeth; she’s a bit bloody doolally. Er, I’m not d – I’m not doing – I’m not being disloyal to her by telling you that in, you know, in public, because she knows she’s doolally. She’ll say “Hullo, I’m Elizabeth Thackray. I’m doolally”. And . . . well . . .

About, oh, eight or nine years ago she had a bad patch in her life where she kept on . . . having to go into hospital. And the reason wh – for that was because she kept on falling down stairs. In the darkness. It was always in the dark and it was always down the stairs, and she kept on breaking bits of herself; you know. And there was hardly a week went by where there wasn’t some bit of Auntie Elizabeth that wasn’t covered in plaster. So after a bit the GP thinks: ‘Well, I don’t know, this is a bit funny, you know’. He sent her to see a psychiatrist. Because of – he – he thought of course that she was . . . taking a bit of a dive, you know, trying to go. And it was ty – typical of Auntie Elizabeth that she’d – she would do it in – if she was going to commit suicide, she’d do it indoors. I mean she wouldn’t chuck herself out of the bedroom window onto the pavement because of what the neighbours might think. So they sent her to see a psychiatrist.

Now the reason why . . . Lizzie was . . . going headlong down the stairs was something other. The fact was that ou- on the landing just outside her bedroom door there was a loose floorboard. Not loose enough for her to trip over, but what had happened was that th – erm – the floorboard had come out of the joist, see, and the nail was still stuck in. And when it had been replaced the nail went neatly into an electric cable. So Auntie comes . . . out of the bedroom, stands on the nail, into the cable, electricity up the nail, into Auntie, the lights go out and phttt! down she goes. And – and they sent her to a psychiatrist! You know. I mean, a couple of minutes with a National Health electrician would’ve done the job.

[Followed, for some reason, by The Remembrance]

A story told by Jake on ‘Jake Thackray and Songs’, BBC TV 27 January 1981

There’s another thing about . . . about being a singer. I like the job; I like being a singer. You know: when I grow up I want to be a singer. But perversely enough you cannot be a singer without having to talk. You’ve – you’ve got to talk. What I prefer to do, given the chance, just facing you like this . . . I’d just prefer to sing the songs, you know, pell-mell, one after another: I sing, you go clap; I sing, you go clap – or not, as the case may be. And for me, any case, the evening would be pleasant; I could . . . it’d trot away nice and briskly.

But you can’t do that. You can do it if you’re an acrobat. I mean, if you’re an acrobat all you’ve got to do, you’re billed as an acrobat so, what do you do? – you check your flies are done up and you come on and you acrobat; you just acrobat all night. Hooray! And if you’re a conjurer, you come on and conje. You know. And people would be disappointed if you sat down and gave them a few Helen Shapiro numbers at the piano. Perversely enough, if you’re a singer, and it’s something that I’m trying to get used to and I cannot: it might sound a bit disingenuous but I – can’t get used to it: the fact that you’ve got to talk. ‘Cos if you don’t – if you don’t talk, after a few songs just like that, you know, in my case people . . . I can see ’em: I can look down and after song number three without saying anything I can see them; and they’re going: ‘Say, can’t the bugger talk?’

Going home in – afterwards in the motor car, I used to think: How did you sing the songs? Well, that was a bit duff. I used to think about the songs and then I thought: Christ, what did you say in between? And I remembered, and then I started blushing, erm, and there’s nothing worse than blushing to yourself in the dark. So. . . so, listen I stopped doing it, erm, I’ve stopped doing it. If . . . Sometimes I just won’t stop. Sometimes I’ll finish a song and just lumber on into the next one. And then when I feel that I ought to do a talking bit, I’ll stop, and do a talking bit.

A story/intro told by Jake on ‘Jake Thackray and Songs’, BBC TV – 3 February 1981

A lady over there asked me for a sort of request, er, to sing a song. It’s very flattering to be, you know, asked to sing songs. I’m not going to sing the one that she asked me for because, er . . . well I can’t actually – I can’t remember a lot of the words, see, you know, and its, er . . . But I’ll tell you what, look, erm, if it’s any consolation, the one I’m going to sing will have a lot of the same . . . notes.

An intro from Jake:

There are about fourteen countries to my calculations (which might be wrong) – fourteen countries in the world today where the troops of one country are occupying and imprisoning the people of another country. The sight of a soldier with a gun guarding a civilian is commonplace – isn’t it? There’s a famous lavatory-wall slogan which proclaims – it’s a middle-class lavatory, by the way – which proclaims that ‘Fighting for peace is like fornicating for virginity’.

This song could be called “The Soldier”; I call it “The Prisoner”.

An intro from Jake:

I want to try you out with this song. I’ve got some children at home, and I used to write songs for them, erm, because I thought as a song writer I ought to, you know, give songs to my children. And they were duff, what I used to write; until one day my eldest child came up and said, er, write something like Jake Thackray writes; you know, long songs, no tunes, er, funny words, gruesome stories, and then we’ll know at least that our father wrote these. I’ll give you an example. Here’s a silly song, here’s a silly song that I wrote for my children once.

An intro from Jake:

Here’s our (family) favourite, and it’s ever such a long song. I’ll sing a few verses of it. At home – oh, we love singing about this, we love making up verses.

At home we’ve got an old dog. She’s right old, and really she’s going a bit . . . she’s going a bit doolally. She does peculiar things . . . She sits watching the fridge – really! She can’t remember where she lives, she can’t remember her name . . . you know, things like this. She’s a very old dog. But of course we’re potty about her, but we take the piss out of her quite a lot.

I’ll tell you what it is, it’s like . . . my middle son told me, he mentioned this to me, and he’s dead right: it’s like having an old, an old potty auntie living with you. You know, I mean you love her very much indeed, and you say “come down and stay with us, Auntie – please; you must. We’ve got a downstairs bedroom, and central heating, and it would be lovely to see you,” and you mean all that. And then she comes down, and she’s so bloody doolally! Well, I don’t know, we had one about four weeks ago, our Auntie Betty was down, and it was all – shuffling about, talking to herself upstairs. She used to talk to the cold tap!

And also there’s kind of – don’t get me wrong – there’s a kind of auntie . . . smell. Don’t laugh too much, because you know how much one loves one’s auntie, but there is a . . . it’s not an unpleasant smell, but I mean it’s, it’s an . . . somebody’ll knock on the door and he’ll say, “Oh, good morning Jake, could I borrow a cup of sug- . . . Have you got an auntie staying?” But, of course, you are fond of these people. I’ll sing this song and then we’ll have a half-time.

And on another occasion Jake said:

I’m going to chance my arm; here’s another children’s song. It’s a song about our dog. It’s a very private song but, er, see what you make of it. It’s a song about a dog that we’re potty about that lives with us.

An intro from Jake:

I’m going to try this one out on you now, and I don’t know actually whether I can play it.

Erm, there’s a bit of a story behind it. A German television company asked me to write a – a signature tune for one of their programmes – in English; and they said, “Whatever you do, don’t use words with more than one, two or three syllables”. The bloody cheek of them! Have you seen German syllables?

So here is a – a serious song, and I quite like it; see what – see what you make of it.

An intro from Jake:

I want to finish off with a good song. Erm I, I won’t tell you what the song is about. I’m singing it in French and then I shall go home; you’ll have to guess. Beautiful song: simple, artless, well-made, French.

And on another occasion Jake said:

Er, you know Mr Willis is always saying “Songs for kids,” for kids; er, here’s a song that I’ve er, just in the last minute persuaded the director to let me sing, and the next guest we’ll be talking to, Mr Matthews, knows this song. It’s not in my language and I didn’t write it, it’s a song by a Frenchman whose name is Georges Brassens. Georges Brassens, well, is one of the best of all songwriters and he’s little known in this country; it’s a shame. Here’s a small song of his, it’s a little artless thing: he’s taking the piss out of French folk singing and folk singing generally but he doesn’t hammer them: what he does is to write something even better than other folks. And the story is this: A young man is wandering in, in a forest and he comes to a fountain and there’s a lady bathing herself, naked, and suddenly her clothes are blown clean off, clean away, she can’t find them. She begs the young man could he gather, I don’t know flowers, leaves, so she can keep her modesty; and he does, and she’s that thrilled that she embraces him and he responds so passionately that the leaves blow away again and she sinks to her knees and you can hear her again naked in the fountain, and she’s praying for more gusts of wind in the world.

Two intros from TV in 1971 and 1981

BBC TV 20 January 1981

I prefer not to explain songs; songs should just sing for themselves. I’ll try and make it quick.

The song is about a . . . about a woman . . . er, who was a shepherdess. Well, not a shepherdess: that’s too . . . fine a word. She was a . . . sheepminder. And she wasn’t really . . . a woman: she was a girl. And she was a little girl. And this happened, this happened about sixty year ago; sixty year ago.

She was sent up to look after the sheep on the moor, and to fend for herself – you know: scrabble about for her own food. And of course, er, after three of four years of this she passed away. And it was some time before they found her. And when they found her, they found her as they find . . . dead sheep; you know: a wisp of wool and a scrap of bone. And that was her life, one end to another. Fourteen, fifteen year old. That’s how they used to treat children, they used to do it like that, and, given ’em a chance and the bastards still do.

[Explains yan, tan, tether mether pip]

Braden’s Week, BBC TV 6 November 1971

In Swaledale, in the North Riding of Yorkshire, sheep-farmers used to, and some still do, count their sheep in a very curious fashion: instead of one, two, three, four they go thus: yan, tan, tether, mether, pip; azar, sazar, akker, conter, dick; yanadick, tanadick, tetheradick, metheradick, bumfit; yanabum, tanabum, tetherabum, metherabum, jigget. Having reached twenty they then take a stone, representing the twenty sheep that they have counted, and if they possess more than twenty sheep then they go for another twenty: yan, tan, tether, mether, pip; another twenty, another stone; yan, tan, tether, mether, pip; again twenty, again another stone.

Some time ago my grandmother told me – vaguely, casually, in a very off-hand sort of way – that we had a great aunt, Aunt Molly, who was a shepherdess. Not one of your petticoated shepherdesses with a frilly pinafore and a creamy complexion: this woman started minding sheep at the age of seven, scarcely left the moor, rotted and died with her ghastly sheep at the age of twenty-eight. Believe me, it comes as a shock to one at thirty-three years old, purple-shirted, Hush-Puppied, with the Aqua Velva still cool upon my cheek, with a house and a car and access to most kinds of physical contentment to discover that I’m related by bone, skin, time and place to somebody who led such a grim, grinding swine of a life.